My entire life is laid bare At its altar of data. A prophet of the probable, A god of the predictable. It watches as I write, It listens as I speak, It tracks as I click. The algorithm knows. It sees me before I see myself, Tempts desires I didn’t know I had. It watches as I pause, Tracks the hesitation in my click, Stores the seconds I lingered. The algorithm knows. No pause too brief, No action too small, No gesture too subtle, No whisper too faint. It listens, It watches, It collects, It anticipates. The algorithm knows. There is no refuge. Every message, an offer. Every site, a storefront. It whispers at me: “Didn’t you want this?” “This is what you’ve always needed.” It screams at me: “You want this! You need this!” “Why haven’t you bought this yet?” Its voice is everywhere, Louder than my own thoughts. Resigned, I obey. My clicks, My pauses, My life, commoditized, packaged, and sold back to me. The algorithm knows. Me. And in so knowing, It owns me.